Weekend in review

So naturally this will be a rambling post of sorts. So naturally, this will not be very focused. So naturally, as I sit here and my legs are dripping sweat and funk and I'm sleepy but not tired because the suite is just...so...hot, this will not have a theme.

What it does have: sex, rock & roll, a little guitar work, some inspired light shows, chance encounters, furries. Those you will have to ask me about.

This weekend started for me on Wednesday -- I had the day off, was in general emotionally drained and needed an extra day of respite. I'm shitty at breakups, but even shittier at the tiny bullshits that keep people in ties with each other. That's my own bad, and I'm chalking it up to the long harsh toll of 34 years of unintended single hood. So I call out. Sorry to the regulars, but I do. Out of guilt, I decide to make it up to myself and do as much as I effing can. So I feel better.

An aside: it was recently brought to my attention that I have been here for a year. And while I know other people who have been here for less, I'm an activities-based person -- without them I generally stumble around, foolish, looking for another place to people watch if I'm not getting my rock on (or rocks off). But that doesn't matter so much.

The highlights:

• Venues -- The Mercury Lounge, The Bell House, Death by Audio. No order intended. Mercury Lounge, while a decent place, doesn't seem to mix well as a crowd placfe. The Bell House seems to have it, but is probably the biggest place I will see a show at. Death by Audio. Well, if you ever felt the need to be a potential extra in a serial killer drama of some sort, then bring friends. That being said, the most interesting of the three, and probably has the best talent running through.
  
  
• Williamsburg -- When going to said Death by Audio, naturally I had to run through here. I have heard it said that certain neighborhoods belong to a certain demographic, and you realize going in that they want as little to do with you and vice versa. That's how I feel in Billyburg. Much like the SF's Mission district, the amount of young, largely plaintively searching peoples makes me want to, if not gag, run for cover. I can assume that the neighborhood is different in packs -- being lone, intrepid explorer, I'd much rather spend my time elsewhere. It might be my own personal feeling in the area, but the amount of head-up-assishness is largely...underwhelming. But I'm not one to rock the boat there.
  
  
• Rooftops: Great for watching fireworks, albeit from a distance far enough removed it's more spectacle at how the smoke clears. But really, it's just great.
  
  
• Hanging out: To anybody wondering, I think I might have a new local. Not that it's too close to me, but it's everything I look for in a bar, meaning it's got cool people who will talk to the pathetic singleton loser at the other end.
  
  
• Working: God, I still need more days off. For people who are looking for some cheesecake, you won't get any.

I'm out. Talk at you all later.

Addendum: After writing this, lying down, sweating my balls off then sweating some more, I realized I forgot to add something. In the process of this blog a band of fireworks went off in the driveway below, shooting pebbles onto my arm, three stories up. The entire night has been electric with the snare beat of this little explosions, far away and near. I need to sleep, but the general chaos of the scene reminds me why it's great to be out of San Francisco. You'd get this a little bit in Chinatown for the new year, but I remember nothing approximating this. Like a small proxy war being fought out in the dim patch of 2 a.m. dusk. And like the Brits are still pissed, having tied that little World Cup thing, and have decided to re-invade after all these years.

Bombastic!

Political threesome

Mysterious attack ads placed around the internets surrounding a potential Metz in ’16 campaign (I deny any knowledge of an impending campaign nor any validation of the comments herein):

G--- Metz cut his teeth in the liberal SF political machine, advocating free gay sex for methamphetamine. Is this what we want running America?

G--- Metz has wined and dined known terrorists, associating with Nancy Pelosi and Barbara Boxer. Just say No to METZ.

G--- Metz was born in San Francisco to a Mexican mother, meaning he was born on foreign soil to a illegal parents. G--- METZ: He's not even eligible.

Suck it, Rush Limbaugh. Suck it, Glenn Beck.

(Ed. note, whoever can find the mysterious poster of said statements, I would like to interview him or her for my campaign manager. If I needed a campaign manager.)

pissing in the corner (again)

I have, before, been on record that I can't stand Yelp out here. As some of you may know, in SF, while it's not golden, it's a pretty good indicator of quality, experience, etc., for most places one might want to check out. Also, SF has a nasty tendency to bring out the closet pontificator in everyone.

However, with the general vastness of the city in the state that is doubly named -- New York, it seems that Yelp is pretty much, while not useless, a little bit of a trainwreck of democratic process. Too many voices, nobody filtering them. Ironic, since it's New York, not California (sorry, that will be my last dig on that fair, arid state by the most inaptly named ocean in maybe forever -- it's getting frankly like old shtick. Or old socks).

So I'm going to claim it. Or reclaim it. Or not do a damned thing. But I'm writing on it again, which, while seemingly inconsequential for the spurring of such a blog post, is mainly a reason for me to try, try as I might to get my writing chops in gear.

Ah, now the truth. I have always figured myself to be grossly, chronically overextended. I write this, I watch this, I play guitar and attempt to be social and attempt to find and hide and otherwise be a general man-of-all-seasons. And I like it and then I forget to get writing and I don't. It's a vicious, viperous self-defeating cycle.

But, I think I've also forgotten just how much of a sounding board it could be when I'm upset or not writing or otherwise moot and tongue-tied and completely unordered. And prone to run-ons. Oh well. I wrote some blah on there the other day. Now I feel rejuvenated. Somewhat.

So shame on me. My writing problem is not inspiration. It's the actual writing.

warning: compendium post incoming. be forewarned, watch out for shrapnel

Well look at this, you get another post within, what, two weeks of each other? The excitement, were it not about to lock up your throat in fits of asthmatic glee, would probably be enough to lock up your throat in fits of asthmatic glee. If such a thing were to happen.

And now:

1) I'm wondering what exactly it is that makes the average credit-cum-loan-cum-populist-babble radio post sound like the babbling of a semi-coherent homeless guy on a Sunday afternoon 4. What I'm thinking is that ad agencies, in lieu of hiring somewhat competent writers or, say, all-smiles-and-teeth communications professionals, they've taken to outsourcing to the shelters.

From the radio:
Are you tired of all the bailout loans going to poor people, while you're struggling to pay your mortgage?

From the 4:
...and in this time of bailouts, and I know you're struggling with mortgages and putting the kids through college...

Frankly, I'm thinking this might be the best Madison Avenue idea in years. Except for the throwdown steel-cage jello-wrestling Superbowl throwdown. I might have just made that up.

2) I might have found a god shot (and please, no comments on the lack of a definitive article). On Friday, I took the walk -- nay, I say, adventure and or safari -- through the mildly alienistic nyc shtetl of South Williamsburg. Nothing against it, nothing all that odd although I felt I needed a tazer or at the very least raw bacon to hold off the legions in the odd case that somebody recognized that the indentation on my head was in fact a result of age and thinning hair than, say, a yamulke, but walk I did. Forward, forthright, foolhardily, but I moved. And I stumbled on, in this little nook of an area, on Bedford between the tiny little shopfaces and squee and cutesy mopeds, Oslo.

I will not rate Oslo. I will say the shot here (and when I say I speak specifically of the Bedford Ave. location, not to be confused with the straight-from-the-strip-mall Roebling location -- I had one there as well and it was not as good) -- I will say that, apart from being a darker roast than I usually like, might have been near espresso perfection. I will say that it was, not to bore with details, but it was: spicy, creamy, caramely and in-your-face, sweet, slight dry, bold, kick-you-in-the-teeth brash and fuck-you-in-the-face wonderful. Yes, it was that good. It might have just been a thing of skill, but it was that good.

3) The original 3 has been deleted, and was much more entertaining and provocative. Enjoy this photo (courtesy of the Billyburg excursion)L

And now for something completely different (and no, this is not the Monty Python post you are looking for)

I do not usually do this. It's not in my nature, it brings me a slight tinge of discomfort and even thinking about the next few words and sentences creates an unconscious discomfiting tickle in my upper intestinal lumen. My stomach is churning to right itself.

But like any good little trooper, I'm about to put on my Jay-Z best and perform the only previously stated: here comes the obligatory shout-out.

Specifically, and as some of you may know, I'm a fan of the Bat Segundo show, which was a salve for me especially back in the dark age of San Francisco and has become a staple of my Friday afternoon listening walks. More recently, I've gotten into the interviewer's -- Ed Champion's -- blog . More specifically still, the last two posts are, if anything, a source of both titillation and all around book-geek glee.

For your perusal:

1. The breakdown of Michiko Kakutani's The New York Times reviews loving entitled "Why Does Michiko Kakutani Hate Fiction So Much?" (with a nice self-deprecating nod to the author's own reviewing predilections).
   (g.m.'s response: yes, she has a lot of snarky reviews, yes, she reads a lot of crap as the pre-eminent review and thus a lot of marquee titles, but even the books she likes tend to be middle-brow, semi-sentimental drivel).
   
   
2. And this one I think I'm strictly enjoying as a point of public service, the (by all means not complete) list of Literary Podcasts. I do have to be frank in this one, as I've not listened to the majority of these, but for anyone who comments on the NYTimes's own Book Review podcast as "Every Friday, for fifteen minutes, the corporate yesman Sam Tanenhaus manages to take all the life out of books," well, for that, I have to give it credit. But it also happens to be a very wide-ranging list, complete with a list of reviews, commentary, readings, etc. It even breaks down for genre stuff.
   
   Now, if we could just get the same level of vitriol he has for the NYT (we feel it Ed, trust me) applied to the NPR/PRI bastard baby Selected Shorts, which if anything consistently throws out the most compelling list of bland on a weekly basis, well then I'd be happy.

And as a completely separate thing, completely on the Edward Champion kick, I have to throw out a nice little Bat Segundo with Robin Black delving into craft.

* * *

(ed. note: I understand. This just turned into a three-dotter. I will keep it short.)

[REDACTED]

(ed. note: on second thought, this section seemed moderately half-baked at the current moment, so will have to be saved for another day/post. Enjoy your weekend.)

And where exactly is that warp zone to the springs of bikini-clad Iceland?

I've been trying to pin down the surrealism of the subway system here. I mean, the entire thing, apart from the seeming moebius strip quality to the layout, has always had a varying haphazard ramshackle setup to the stations. This plays nicely into fantasies. No, not those kind. What I'm referring to, and I'm sure it was part of the design intention, is the bizarre mosaics/installations that wend their way onto platforms, walls, walkups to platforms and walls, what have you. The entire thing is a video game. Like some mushroom-hazed and coked-out version of Mario Bros.

Case 1:


(Here, as you will see, is the entrance to the Sino-Egyptian section of Wario world).

Case 2:

(Somebody should tell Dig-Dug this is a job for a gardener/horticultural technician).

Case 3:

(So what did we tell you about pretending like you're frogger?)


Now. That's it. I'm on a bit of a dry spell right now. Excuse the calcium build-up on the brain. Oh yeah, and I'm running out of coffee. The world is topsy-turvy.

ahem (pt. 2 -- or how Apple further degraded the peaceable existence of the free world)

Now. I don't know and I don't really care that much about how you feel one way or the other about the state of Israel/the Zionist Hegemony/Center of Racism in the World/The Shining Embunkered Jewel in the Middle East Hill. I don't really care. I spent long portions of my childhood (probably on account of a staple of Golan Globus films, most featuring Ninjas playing the part of the Mossad) idolizing them, before maturing to a state of ambivalence. I'm okay with this, which is why I've put it in print.

However, today the news was cast that the same-said state has lifted its ban on the importation of iPads. Sad, yes, but even sadder is this possibility -- so the iPad operates on a frequency that could interfere with other electronic gadgets, which in Israeli-speak means that the iPad could possibly have figured in to some type of terrorist plot. What this really means: if this were to happen, would Apple then be considered a state-sponsor of terror, as it rightly should be? It's already got a lock on the SF Bay Area, which holds its own on several watch lists.

Shame on you, Israel, for not letting this come to pass.